


11x2 fix it

by Tacoapocalypse3847848



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Married Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Mickey Milkovich Loves Ian Gallagher, fix it fic for 11x2 because I hated the end, hurt!Ian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:07:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28056624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tacoapocalypse3847848/pseuds/Tacoapocalypse3847848
Summary: They keep leaving Gallavich so unresolved and relying on AO3 writers to make fill-in-fics to satisfy the fandom. Oh well.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 2
Kudos: 136





	11x2 fix it

“Stop.” Ian grits out from between his clenched teeth.

“Washingtons look good on you.” I sneer, sliding more singles from my palms.

Ian continues on, trying his best to seem undeterred, but in all actuality I can see the heat pooling at his cheeks as he does sit-up after sit-up.

“God these Franklin’s are hot. That fuckin wig.” I tease, now throwing handfuls of cash at Ian.

Ian lays back on the floor, defeated and covered in green.

“Mick. I'm not a fukcing stripper.” he growls.

“Not anymore at least, but you can still put back on those gold booty shorts for me and give me a lap dance for a couple of Benjamin’s right?.” I grin, reaching my hand down to pat the top of his head, but Ian shrinks away from my touch.

That sets my nerves on fire.

“Aye, Gallagher-” I start, before Ian’s screwed-shut eyes fling open to reveal an emerald sea of tears.

“Shit.” I mutter, rolling out of bed as Ian stands up, hurt imminent in his eyes.

“You're right, Mick. I'm not a stripper anymore because I'm taking my meds and paying my taxes like the law abiding citizen that I want to be. But you know what, I'm earning less busting my ass off hauling boxes away for the conglomerates in a week than I was earning on a singular Friday night at that slub. All I'm doing is walking the straight and narrow and all I'm doing is getting kicked in the face.” Ian spits, tears dribbling down his pale and freckles cheeks.

“Jesus fuck Ian.” I start, feeling like I should have watched a doctor Phill episode on this shit.

He cuts me off, anger and hurt forming a perfect mixture on his porcelain cheeks. “I'm more than my body Mick. I'm trying so hard to be more than just a fucking stripper, giving every piece of me away to whoever thinks they can buy it night by night.” Ian cries out, his breath starting to hitch, like always when he sobs.

Words won't fix this anymore.

“Jesus Gallagher, get over here.” I groan, pulling on both his wrist and catching him off guard. Flopping back on the bed, and pulling him on top of me before he even gets time to protest, I scootch my head up to the pillow and let his gigantic ginger head rest on my heart. I know how much his sappy fingers like to trace my tattoo of his name whenever he feels insecure. Like that night when he thought I choose pologamy at Lip’s, yes I Goggled the logistics of “amys”.

“Shhhh.” I soothe, running a couple of fingers through his cropped ginger hair, wishing it was a bit longer so I could twirl the strands between my fingers like I used to do in the middle of the night during his first bouts of depression.

I let Ian cry it out for a minute. Let his ears take in the rhythm of my heartbeat. Let his body get used to the way that my chest pushes against his very time I exhale. Let his stupid and pointy big ass nose nuzzle it's way into my neck as his forehead digs into my cheek. I let him have his sixty-second pity party before digging a finger under his cheek and forcing him to look at me.

“Firecrotch, please look at me.” I command, using my opposite hand to wipe a few tears away before tracing up and down his spinal cord like he likes. From shoulder blade to the dip in his back. Back up to his shoulder blades. Back down to the dip in his back. Over and over again in a sweeping motion that always seems to calm him down.

Green eyes meet mine. “I was an idiot for saying that, Ian. You know you're more than just your body. Even if your body is so soft and adorableeee.” I tease, wiggling a finger against the younger man’s neck until he scrunched up his neck like a turtle, and a betraying smile stretched on his face.

“I was just fucking with you because of fucking Jerome.” I continue.

“Who?” he asks, tilting his head.

“Not important. My point is, that I'm never going to be the guy that gets a job by charming his way into letting Costco forget his felony charges with my big dopey green eyes and red mop of hair.” I tell him.

“You don't have to be.” Ian tells me softly, “I just feel like when I eventually get unbalanced with my meds, I don't want to leave you out in the dark. That's why we need a nest egg.”

“Red, I'm not going to die if you have to take a sick week.” I explain, but Ian bites his lip guiltily.

“Hey superman, my award-winning eyebrows and I can take care of ourselves. It's not all on you./” I tell him, wiggling my eyebrows. No matter how many times I do that, it always leaves Ian in stitches. Giggling so hard that he buries his face in my neck to hide it. And I swear to whatever god you believe in that if it made those angelic sounds pour out of his mouth all day, I'd keep my eyebrows raised for the rest of my life.

“Hey giggles, we're gonna be okay even if something happens with your meds, you know that right?” I remind him, softly once he settles down.

“You know.” Ian says, eyes looking downward as he starts to trace my tattoo and fixates on his ministrations, “You made more today than I'll make in a week. And you made Franny’s year.”

“South side rule number one freckles, if you give a princess a gun, she’ll beat up a local pedophile and probably shoot a middle schooler. Besides, I only made that because I wanted you to be proud of me.” I admit, whispering now.

“I'm always proud of you. Ian deadpans. “No matter what you do because we got these rings and that's what marriage means. I'm proud of you whether you sit on the couch, run guns, or teach a high school science class.”

“I'm pretty sure marriage has more to do with tax benefits than pride and conjugal visits, but nonetheless.” I proclaim.

“Yeah.” Ian breathes softly through a yawn, cuddling closer into my chest, as if that was possible. Sometimes I swear that Ian is literally a gigantic ginger teddy bear with complicated feelings and a savior complex. But he's my teddy bear, either way.

“Hey sleepy face, I'm still sorry I said that. Wasn't nice.” I whisper into his hair.

“I know.” Ian says like it's the most obvious thing in the world through a sleepy mumble, “I love you Mick.”

I can't help but smile as I press my lips against his forehead. “Love you more, fuckhead.”


End file.
